


I Wanna Be a Paladin, Again

by cabbagespoon



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Dissociation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Vomiting, Whump, emeto
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2019-09-13 21:43:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16900347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cabbagespoon/pseuds/cabbagespoon
Summary: Kuron centric collection of whump drabbles. Dedicated to the boy who deserved better.





	1. Chapter 1

He wakes up trembling and can’t seem to stop, too groggy and disoriented to get himself under control.

He desperately wants to go back to sleep, but it’s so much worse now. He can’t remember ever feeling it like this before. Like he’s dying, disintegrating from the inside out.

He digs his fingernails into his scalp, hard enough to leave crescent shaped bruises. He wants to rip his eyeballs out of their sockets and briefly wonders whether that might work. He has to do something to relieve this unbearable pressure. He’d do anything for a few seconds of calm.

The pain flares again with such vengeful determination that Shiro has to roll over and scream into his pillow, the noise muffled and wounded, quiet as he can manage.

It feels like years before the crippling torment releases him and begins to ebb, slowly trickling back down into his veins to fester for a while longer. Long enough so that he’s almost certain his head isn’t going to explode all over his pillowcase. Not tonight, anyway.

Shiro pants hoarsely into the damp fabric, slowly lifts his head and sniffs through a disgustingly clogged nose. He hadn’t even realized he’d been crying. He tries to clear his throat and ends up choking on a wet cough.

_Slow it down. Breathe._

Cold nausea prickles the fine hairs along the back of his neck. Shiro swallows hard, squeezes his eyes shut and wills the feeling to go away. He doesn’t want to throw up. That always makes it worse.

He burrows down and tries to find a comfortable position, tucks his long limbs into a ball and prays that sleep will carry him away. But the nausea builds like an ocean swell until his mouth is watering and he’s shivering beneath an icy blanket of cold sweat. Shiro knows better than to fight it, knows from experience how long he can hold out. The last thing he wants is to get sick all over his sheets, again.

So he pushes up onto his elbows, expecting the monster to rear it’s head. When nothing happens, he lowers bare feet to the floor and scrubs a hand over his face, fighting the dizziness that always accompanies these fucking migraines.

He’s horribly unsteady, but he makes it to the bathroom.

“Lights to two,” he croaks, then stands as still as possible while his eyes adjust, flesh hand hovering uncertainly over his stomach. Maybe he won’t —

But already his throat is tightening, saliva flooding over his tongue before he can swallow down the urge to gag. Shiro lowers down onto his knees, belatedly wishing that he’d remembered to pull on a t-shirt or something. It’s so fucking cold down here. His fingers clamp onto the metallic edges of the bowl, bracing for the inevitable. He’s still fighting through it, won’t ever stop fighting.

The skull-crushing pain clamps down on him so abruptly it steals his breath, like someone’s squeezing his brain with a giant nutcracker, waiting for him to shatter apart. There’s a low keening, a sound he does not recognize, the noise a machine makes just before the last dregs of life flicker from its core, before everything goes dark and silent.

Shiro lets out a sob, ragged and panicked. He can’t keep quiet any longer. It’s so hard to breathe, now. The water ripples below him as he heaves frantically, in and out, struggling to fill his lungs, but it never seems to be enough.

A hot surge of bitterness scorches up his throat and spills out of him. He leans forward just in time and vomits, coughing and sputtering on a thick slurry of bile. Crying hurts too much, so the tears fall silently into the soiled water. Shiro knows he isn’t finished, can feel the sickness rolling up like a black tidal wave inside him. But he doesn’t have the strength to hold his aching body up any longer.

Shiro gives up and slides bonelessly to the floor, panting as he curls onto his side at the base of the toilet. The cold surface feels good against his flushed cheek. He retreats into himself, far away from this reality, from the voices inside his head; always whispering such awful things. Unforgivable things.

His stomach heaves again and he spits up another small mouthful, heedless of the mess he’s making and too far gone to care. He’s so fucking tired of feeling sick. Tired of hurting all the time, uncertain how much longer he can endure with a smile frozen on his face. He’s not sure it matters anymore. They’ve all noticed his shell cracking inch by inch, a mile wide now. The man, the leader they need him to be, that boy’s been gone for a long time, now, _hasn’t he…_

 _Useless_. Soon, he will be useless to them.

He wants to throw up again, but there’s nothing left in his stomach. Nothing left to give.

Sticky tears roll down his cheeks and he doesn’t try to stop them. He’s lying practically naked, sick on the bathroom floor in the dead of night, and no one will ever be the wiser. In a small, forbidden corner, buried deep down in the darkest crevice of his soul, Shiro knows that his existence is irrelevant. There have been others before him, and there will be others after.

They never really needed him at all.

Coran gave him something a while ago, something to take the edge off the pain, after he’d found out about the headaches. He told Shiro to be careful; a couple would go a long way, he’d said.

In the beginning, Shiro had been adamant about managing on his own. He hid the bottle away with no intention of ever touching its contents. But now, stranded in the futile, lonely hours before dawn, with no one awake to care, he finds that he doesn’t much care, either. He just wants to feel better, if only for a little while.

Shiro drags himself up off the floor, dizzy and exhausted and incapable of maintaining eye-contact with the frighteningly hollowed figure staring back at him from the mirror. His fingers tremble as he rifles through the cabinet, scattering the few items he’s bothered to stow inside.

The bottle is small, deceptively ordinary. His vision blurs when he tries to inspect the container, struggling to read the instructions, then barks out a harsh laugh when he realizes every word is in Altean. He figures they can’t be too different from Earth painkillers. He unscrews the cap and dry-swallows two of the translucent blue pills. Then figures he might need two more to account for his body mass.

Shiro gulps a mouthful of water, then cups a few handfuls to splash his face. Already, the pain has retreated to a dull throb behind his eyes. A few seconds later, a soothing warmth floods his bloodstream, drowning the festering poison hibernating in his veins. His eyelids droop heavily as he exhales a slow, relieved breath, then another.

The floor seems to embrace him as he sinks down onto it, limbs collapsing until he’s on his ass with his legs stretched out haphazardly in front of him. He licks his swollen lips, head lolling against the wall. It feels so strange not to hurt. He’d almost forgotten…

Even while he’s floating through the numb haze, Shiro knows that he can’t stay here on the bathroom floor forever. Eventually he’s going to have to clean up and drag himself back to bed, before someone finds him like this.

But it’s still so early. He has a little time, doesn’t want to disturb the precarious silence. It’s finally quiet and he can breathe again.

Shiro inhales deeply, filling his lungs and holding for a few experimental seconds before exhaling a shaky breath of laughter.

He wonders why this newfound silence doesn’t feel completely sane.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro hasn't been sleeping. Not since he came back.

Keith knows that Shiro hasn’t been sleeping. Not since he came home.

That wouldn’t be unusual, except that he’s been so much more careful about hiding it.

Keith remembers when Shiro would grow weary of walking the vast halls of the ship, find his way back to Keith’s room, and the younger boy would keep him company. They never talked much, but Shiro never seemed to mind. The unspoken reassurance of each other’s presence was enough.

Now they don’t talk at all.

Shiro makes a noticeable effort to keep to himself. He defaults to leader-mode most of the time, so the others don’t really notice. But even then, his enthusiasm is forced. He’s trying so hard to be normal for them. And yet, Keith can sense that Shiro isn’t happy. He’s hurting and detached and Keith doesn’t know how to help. Hell, he doesn’t even know how to help himself. There’s a barrier standing between them that wasn’t there before.

 _Before_.

That word makes Keith feel hollow inside. His chest aches at the thought of it. Of what it means for them, now.

Because even though it’s a truth he’s doing everything in his fucking power to ignore, Keith _knows_. He’s not certain what he knows. But it’s been eating at him, doesn’t know how to bring it up because then he would have to explain, and he can’t do that.

Shiro knows, too. He’s good at pretending, but not so good that Keith is oblivious to those flickering nanoseconds of hurt. It happens when Keith clenches his fist and can’t touch Shiro the way he used to, every time he pulls back at the last second. The familiarity is gone.

And Shiro notices. He’s begun preemptively avoiding any sort of physical contact.

The thing is, Keith’s almost grateful. Because then he doesn’t have to watch Shiro swallow down the hurt. The stinging knowledge of Keith’s unspoken rejection. Doesn’t have to feel it like a punch to his gut.

It’s the middle of the fucking night and Keith can’t go back to sleep because he knows if he does, the nightmares will find him. They’ve gotten so much worse, lately.

He rolls out of bed, trudges to the bathroom to piss and nearly jumps out of his boxers when he hears glass shattering. The urge to relieve himself abruptly vanishes and he stumbles out to investigate.

He finds Shiro sitting on the kitchen floor, surrounded by shards of glass and a small puddle of spilled water. He’s gripping his head with one hand and trying to pick up the larger broken pieces with the other. But his hands are shaking too violently and he’s really just making a bigger mess. Keith’s heart spasms when he spots the rivulets of blood dripping down Shiro’s palm.

“Shiro.” He takes a few tentative steps forward and Shiro flinches. “What’re you doing?” Keith softens his voice for the other man’s sake, despite the panic bubbling in his chest.

“Hey,“ Shiro’s voice cracks, fainter than a whisper. “Was thirsty. Bu’, I — ‘m sorry.” He abandons his futile effort to clean up the wreckage of the doomed water glass. Instead, he reaches up to clutch his head with both hands, staining his cheek with sticky flecks of crimson as his fingers dig into his skull. He moans behind clenched teeth, curling in on himself and appearing much smaller than a man his size ought to be able to.

Keith kneels down in front of him and only hesitates for a moment before reaching out to place a hand on the older boy’s shoulder. Shiro’s hitching breaths stutter to a pause for a fraction of a second.

“Your head again?” Keith murmurs, thumb circling over the crook of Shiro’s shoulder. “You should’ve said something. How bad?”

“Dunno —” Shiro breathes, sniffing wetly into his sleeve. “Hasn’t really stopped.”

“Come on,” Keith frowns, stroking his hands carefully down Shiro’s arms a few times. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“Wha’ —” Shiro blinks up at him with watery eyes, uncomprehending. “What’re you —“

“You’re bleeding,” Keith explains patiently.

Shiro looks down at his hands, examines the cut with dull curiosity, and slowly nods, pushing himself up to comply. Once he’s upright, Shiro’s back to gripping his head with both hands, placing one unsteady foot in front of the other. Keith hovers behind him, hand out as a precaution but not quite touching his back.

It’s slow progress, and Keith’s amazed that Shiro hasn’t face-planted by the time they reach the bathroom. Without even thinking, Keith clicks on the light. Shiro grimaces with a pained whimper, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes and collapsing in on himself.

“Shit, I’m sorry. Lights to one,” Keith whispers, quickly lowering the light. Before he can tell Shiro to sit down, the older boy slumps into an awkward crouch against the wall, breathing noisily through his nose. Keith knew he’d been suffering from odd headaches. But he had no idea they’d gotten this bad.

“Easy,” Keith soothes, fumbling for the med-kit. He runs a cloth beneath warm water and wrings it out, squatting down next to Shiro, who still refuses to open his eyes. “Let me see your hand.”

Shiro swallows thickly, fingers kneading into his scalp as he tries to shake his head no.

“Shiro,” Keith says gently, coaxing. “You have to let me see. Let go. Just for a few seconds, okay?”

Shiro allows Keith to pry his wrist away, holding his breath as Keith exams the wound and cocoons the damaged hand with the wet cloth. Shiro winces, tries to pull his hand away, but Keith hurriedly shushes him. He scoots a little closer, despising the fact that Shiro’s biting his bottom lip to keep from crying out.

“It’s not that bad,” Keith says, focusing solely on disinfecting the cut and soaking up the seeping trails of crimson. He says it again, so quietly he doubts Shiro hears him. “Not that bad.”

Shiro goes quiet, eyes hidden behind his other hand and rocks himself on the floor while Keith wraps the bandage.

“There,” Keith breathes, examining his work. “I bet Coran has something for your head. We’ll get you fixed up.”

At that, Shiro uncoils a little, glancing up at the younger boy with a desperation that nearly crushes Keith’s windpipe. He releases a soft hiccup as his breath hitches again, wet eyes glazing over as his gaze slides past Keith’s shoulder.

“Shiro?” Keith tries, ducking his head to catch the other boy’s vacant eyes. “Tell me what you—“ He’s interrupted when Shiro suddenly shoves at his chest, hard enough to send Keith sprawling on his ass. “What the—?”

Shiro lunges clumsily for the toilet, fingers trembling as he fumbles with the lid, saliva dribbling over his bottom lip. Before Keith has a chance to recover, Shiro’s shoulders roll with a silent heave, followed by a gush of liquid splashing into the water.

Shiro coughs, groaning miserably as he spits up another mouthful. Keith hovers behind him, fidgeting with the hem of Shiro’s shirt because he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch.

Shiro pants over the rim for a few moments, features strained as he struggles to compose himself. Eventually, he exhales a shuddering breath and pushes away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Strangely enough, his eyes look a little clearer. He swallows hard, using his shirt to soak up the sweat plastering his hair to his forehead.

“Fuck, Shiro, this is more than just a headache.” Keith finally reaches out, lightly pressing his palm between the broad shoulders. “I’m getting Coran.”

“That’s not necessary,” Shiro coughs into the bowl. But he isn’t slurring anymore. “It happens sometimes. I’m fine.” He holds onto the toilet to leverage himself to his feet. “I feel better now.”

There was the reassuring, albeit shaky smile. The conscious effort to relax his shoulders. The warm hand squeezing the back of Keith’s neck, relaying his gratitude. But Shiro’s eyes are utterly blank.

Keith shivers, blood turning to icy sludge in his veins as Shiro stares back at him, uncomprehending.

And Keith knows.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PTSD is a bitch. Imagined or not...

Shiro drags a trembling hand through his too-long hair. It’s still wet from his shower and the tangles catch around his fingers. He tugs harder and little pricks of pain ignite along his scalp. He gives up and drops his hand into his lap, yawns and lays down on top of the mattress.

He doesn’t sleep, can’t even remember the last time he was in a bed that he wasn’t strapped down to. It’s too soft and seems to want to swallow him. His body aches all over, a bone-deep weariness that he doesn’t imagine will ever truly heal. The bruises and the festering wound in his leg are draining every last ounce of his energy and yet the pain is all he can focus on. Pain is better than trying to sort through the confusing jigsaw of chaotic memories crashing around inside his head.

He’s tried to sort them out a few times, but nothing makes a lot of sense. Digging deeper makes his head hurt. He can’t remember a time when he didn’t hurt.

Shiro curls onto his side, buries his head in the pillow and tries to empty his mind, to rest, just for a few minutes. If he can just close his eyes without seeing _her_ …

Shiro drifts for awhile, there but not really. He can’t tell if he’s dreaming or remembering. Either way, the images make him squirm, like a parasite is burrowing inside his mind and snipping his wires with invisible fangs. He imagines that he can feel the thing worming around, a foreign pressure pulsing behind his eyes.

His headache flares in a white-hot flash and Shiro sits up with a gasp. He digs the heels of his hands into the sockets, rubbing so viciously that stars explode behind his eyelids. His nose is clogged, forcing him to pant through his mouth. Thick mucous slides down the back of his throat and he has to clear it a few times in order not to choke.

The knock at his door is soft, tentative even. It startles him anyway. His fingers clench around the bedsheets and he instinctively scoots back against the wall, tucking his knees to his chest.

“Shiro?” It’s Keith. He sounds nervous. “I’m coming in, okay?”

Shiro grunts his acknowledgement but he doesn’t think Keith can hear. The door whooshes and a head of shaggy hair peers around the edge.

“Hey,” Keith says, voice so soft he’s almost whispering. “How you feeling?”

It takes a few tries to get his own voice to work, his vocal chords feel like they’ve been rubbed raw against sandpaper. “Okay.”

“Did you sleep?”

“A little,” he lies.

Keith nods, but it’s obvious he doesn’t believe Shiro. Instead of arguing, Keith walks into the room and carefully sits down on the edge of the bed. He’s carrying a tray full of food and a few water pouches.

“Hunk made some dinner,” he explains. “Thought you might be feeling hungry.”

Shiro’s prosthetic involuntarily ghosts over his stomach, hovering like a shield. He isn’t sure what he feels. The gnawing ache could be hunger, or it could just be another part of him that hurts.

“Thank you,” he tries to smile, but doesn’t reach for the tray.

Keith frowns, glancing down at the plate of food, then back up at Shiro. “You should try to eat something,” he says. “Hunk said this would be easy on your stomach. You need to get some of your strength back, man.”

Shiro almost asks what for. Instead, he bites his lip and accepts the plate. It’s filled with a serving of sautéed vegetables covered in a creamy blue sauce. Shiro can pick out what looks like broccoli, cauliflower, carrots and mushrooms, but they’re all weird colors.

He stabs a neon green “carrot” with his spork, shakes a little of blue stuff onto the plate and takes a tentative bite. For a moment his throat tightens, preparing to reject whatever’s trying to enter his body; a defensive reflex. But Shiro takes his time, chewing carefully. It tastes good. The sauce is almost cheesy and the way it seems to coat his tongue is strangely comforting. The vegetables are just tender enough so that he doesn’t have to work too hard to swallow.

While Shiro eats, Keith talks for a while. He tells Shiro a little about Lotor without going into too much detail. He talks about Coran’s newest “isms”, and Hunk’s latest experiments in the kitchen. Nothing too heavy, just enough to distract them both for a bit. To get Shiro out of his head.

Shiro doesn’t say more than three words, but for once, Keith doesn’t mind doing the talking. It’s helping. The gentle, hypnotic hum of Keith’s voice, the methodic motion of stabbing a vegetable and bringing it to his mouth, chewing, swallowing. It’s familiar and easy.

Then Keith goes quiet for a few minutes. Shiro feels like he needs to say something.

“Keith, I…I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you guys.” He stares down at his mostly empty plate, not much left but a pool of lukewarm blue sauce.

“No, Shiro,” Keith murmurs at his lap, “don’t do that. You’re not allowed to do that. You don’t get to take the blame for this.”

Shiro gulps, stares down at his plate and doesn’t know what else to say. He isn’t even sure what he said wrong, but Keith suddenly looks like he’s about to cry. He remembers that he would usually offer a word of comfort, or maybe advice. That’s what he’s supposed to do right now. But his head feels funny and he’s having a hard time putting his thoughts in order.

The food isn’t helping. Now that his stomach is full, Shiro feels warm and sleepy, too tired to do anything except lie back down and not sleep for a while.

Everything he really wants to say, everything he needs to tell Keith will only tumble out of him and land in a jumbled mess at their feet. Keith shouldn’t have to pick up those pieces for him. Keith deserves better than that.

“I’m not sure what I’m allowed to do anymore,” Shiro admits. “I don’t…” he trails off, shakes the tremor out of his flesh hand. He blinks, trying to clear the water from his eyes. “I don’t feel good, Keith,” Shiro finishes helplessly. He isn’t really sure what he’s trying to say.

“I know,” Keith says. “I know you don’t. That’s okay.” He reaches for Shiro’s shoulder. “It’s gonna be okay. Maybe not right now, but eventually. Right now you need to focus on getting better. Healing up.”

Shiro nods because he knows that’s what he’s supposed to do. He’s supposed to reassure Keith that he also believes that. The tremor in his hand intensifies and Shiro loses his grip on the plate. Blue sauce spills all over his hand and into his lap.

“Shit,” Shiro breathes, staring dumbly at the mess dripping between his fingers.

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Keith says easily. “I’ll get you a new shirt.”

Shiro’s head is swimming, vision flickering around the edges as forgotten images invade his minds-eye.

_He can feel the squelch of flesh and the sickening crunch of bone as his prosthetic tears through the skull of something…no, someone. Someone like him. Someone who didn’t deserve this._

_The creature screams, writhing to free itself. The noise is horrifying. Shiro pulls out. His arm is covered in the creatures blood, sticky blue fluid that seeps between the crevices of his Galra arm. Blood burbles from the creatures mouth and its eyes glaze over seconds before it collapses into the sand._

_Not even the buzzing in his ears can block out the spectator’s thunderous cheering. It’s only his second kill. He’s going to be sick._

“Shiro?” A voice asks. Someone’s shaking him. “What’s wrong? Please, talk to me.”

But his throat is contracting and his jaw aches because he can’t stop grinding his teeth. Hot nausea crawls up and settles in the back of his throat, cloying and insistent. His mouth is watering faster than he can swallow. A wet belch slips out without warning and suddenly Shiro is catching a handful of blue-tinged saliva that’s coating the last bite of his dinner.

“Shit, okay, hang on.” Keith’s already gathering the soiled blanket out of the way for him. Shiro scrambles out of bed and trips into the small bathroom. His knees hit the floor hard enough to add to his impressive collection of bruises as he lunges for the toilet.

The awful texture of partially digested food slipping back up his throat makes Shiro gag even harder, suddenly desperate to purge his body. He buries his head in the safety of the bowl and rides out the crippling surge of sickness. He belches through a choked hiccup, shuddering with revulsion as his throat fills up with warm sludge. The stuff pours out of him in two thick waves, splashing violently into the bowl.

“Easy,” Keith murmurs from somewhere over his shoulder. “Hey, you’re all right.”

Shiro feels slender fingers combing through his hair, gathering it up and blessedly out of his face. He coughs harshly, rests his cheek against the rim, and prays that it’s over. He wills himself to forget again.

“Sorry,” he slurs thickly. “Tell Hunk ‘m— sorry about dinner…”

“He’ll live,” Keith snorts, running his thumb in gentle strokes along Shiro’s nape. He gives Shiro another minute to breathe before asking, “You okay? Kinda zoned out for a minute, there. Still feel sick?“

Shiro isn’t sure how to answer the question. He doesn’t feel good. His body hurts, his mind aches. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. He knows that he needs to be okay. But he’s not so sure he is.

“I…don’t know,” he answers honestly. “I think I need a minute.”

“Shiro—“

“Please, Keith,” Shiro begs, wincing when his voice cracks. “I just…I need a minute, okay?”

“Okay.” It’s reluctant. But Keith’s never been able to deny Shiro anything. He gently twists Shiro’s hair around his fingers before draping the strands over Shiro’s shoulder, still relatively out of the way. “I’ll be outside if you need anything.”

Shiro nods and waits until Keith closes the door before he lets the shivers take over. He uncurls his shaky limbs off the bathroom floor, leans against the sink to wash his hand and swish the bitter taste from his mouth. He glances at his reflection and exhales a weary sigh.

“God,” Shiro whispers. He runs his fingers through damp hair, inspects the sparse stubble lining his jaw. “You need a fucking haircut.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro is having a difficult time adjusting. Hunk is there to help.

The splash of water hits his face like an enfilade of ice cycles. The sharp sensation is startling, almost painful, and he gasps involuntarily. Droplets fly off the ends of his bangs when he shakes his head, trying to dislodge the fog that’s clogging his brain along with the water.

It helps a little.

Shiro straightens, swallowing hard as a familiar unease coils low in his stomach. The feeling has been roosting there for hours, troubling in a way that promises he won’t be getting much sleep tonight. At this point, he isn’t so sure if that’s really a bad thing. Sleep hasn’t been kind to him lately.

Every time he closes his eyes, the memories find him, always just a little more distorted than the night before. He can hardly make sense of them anymore. He’s not even sure if they were ever really his to begin with.

Regardless, he seems to be rolling out of bed more exhausted than when he lay down these days. Muscles aching with phantom pain and head throbbing with the ominous certainty that something isn’t quite right. That he’s messed up beyond fixing. Beyond saving.

His stomach twists sharply and Shiro grabs onto the sides of the sink, fingers clenching spasmodically while he breathes through his nose and waits for the feeling to pass.

Another weakness. Another element he can’t control. Another _goddamn liability_.

“No,” Shiro growls through his teeth, tiny flecks of spittle landing on the mirror as a testament to his frustration. He won’t let this feeling, this one insignificant thing get the better of him. He can do that much.

A bead of sweat trickles over the bridge of his nose and falls into the sink. Shiro digs his fingernails into the flesh of his left hand, trying to concentrate on anything but his churning stomach and how full his throat feels.

He swallows until the urge to heave reluctantly retreats, nestling back down in the back of his throat to wait until he lets his guard down again. His muscles slowly relax and he slumps over the sink, panting through the residual wave of lightheadedness.

He’s probably dehydrated. He’s always forgetting to drink water and he’s paid the price on more than one occasion. He doesn’t want to make that mistake tonight, even though putting something in his stomach seems like a monumentally stupid idea at the moment.

When he stumbles into the mess hall, he’s surprised to find that he’s not the only one awake. Hunk is standing at the counter, mixing a giant bowl of neon purple batter. He’s in his pajamas, hair matted in untidy tufts and tongue sticking slightly out in concentration as he beats the batter into submission.

Too tired to reverse direction now, Shiro pads over to the sink, hand hovering discreetly underneath his t-shirt. Keeping a bit of pressure against his stomach seems to be holding everything in place. Maybe having something to sip on will help it settle down.

He opens a cabinet and Hunk lets out a startled yelp from the other side of the kitchen.

“Jeez!” he gasps, grasping at his chest. “Shiro. I didn’t know anyone else was awake.”

“Sorry, Hunk,” Shiro grimaces. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Yeah, man,” Hunk returns to his bowl. “You can’t just go sneaking around people like that. It’s creepy. Make some noise.”

Shiro knows he’s teasing, but he feels bad for startling Hunk, anyway.

“You’re up early.”

Hunk shrugs, giving the spoon another twirl. “Couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d get started on breakfast.” He pauses, giving Shiro a once over and frowning at what he sees. “Your turn.”

Shiro shrugs back. “Same.”

“Uhuh.” Hunk’s frown deepens. He obviously doesn’t believe Shiro, but he doesn’t press the matter. “I was just about to make some tea. You want a cup?”

“Sounds great,” Shiro smiles. “Thank you.” He quickly slips his hand out from underneath his shirt when he catches Hunk staring. He does his best not to wince as his stomach protests the loss of pressure.

Shiro gratefully slumps into a chair at the end of the table and resists the urge to wrap his arms around himself.

“You okay?” Hunk finally asks, setting two mugs down in front of him. “I know you don’t sleep much, but this seems a little early even for you.”

Shiro tries to respond, but he’s interrupted by a bubble of sour air creeping up the back of his throat. He presses a soft belch into the back of his fist, swallows hard and simply nods. Hunk’s eyebrows shoot up another millimeter but again, he doesn’t push it.

Shiro must have closed his eyes for a moment because the next thing he knows, Hunk is busy pouring two subtly fragrant, steaming mugs of tea for the both of them. Shiro pulls the warm mug to his chest and inhales, trying to work up the nerve to take a sip.

Hunk sits down beside him and blows on his own mug. “It’s the closest thing I had to ginger,” he says. “There’s sweetener in the cabinet if you want some.”

“No, this is fine,” Shiro smiles weakly, taking a small sip. The liquid warms his chest and seems to be settling alright. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Hunk relaxes a little, even smiling when Shiro risks a larger gulp.

“What’s the purple stuff?” Shiro asks, just to fill the silence.

“Oh, that?” Hunk grins back at him. “I think I’ve finally perfected my space pancake recipe. I subbed out the root flour for this purple potato-y starchy stuff and the batter just thickens up so much nicer. Texture makes or breaks those puppies, ya know?”

Shiro nods along and swallows another mouthful of tea. The comfortable warmth has morphed into a sticky heat that clings to his skin and rushes to his head, making him feel dizzy. His jaw tightens involuntarily and he glares down into his mug. Wisps of steam curl off the surface and dissipate over his clammy skin. He closes his eyes and wills himself not to lose it, not now.

“Shiro?” Hunk shifts in his chair, reaching over awkwardly to touch Shiro’s forearm. “Hey.”

“I —“ his throat closes up without warning, “I…uh—“ another sick noise slips out, low and wet. Shiro gags quietly in his mouth, shoulders hunching up to his ears as he grips the mug with bloodless fingers.

“Whoa, okay,” Hunk says, pushing away from the table and moving around to Shiro’s side. “Bathroom, dude.”

But Shiro shakes his head, throat working laboriously when he glances up at Hunk. “No,” he breathes. “No, I’m good. Sorry. I just —“ his chest jumps and Hunk takes a half-step backwards. “Jus’ gimme a minute.”

“Shiro, you’re sick.” Hunk looks panicked.

“I’m fine,” Shiro insists, groaning through clenched teeth. “It’ll pass.”

“ _Please_ let me take you to the bathroom,” Hunk pleads. “Just in case.”

“No,” Shiro grunts. It comes out harsher than he intends. Hunk shuts up immediately, startled for the second time that night. “I said I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Hunk says slowly. “Okay, whatever you say.”

“Sorry,” Shiro deflates with a shaky sigh. “I didn’t mean—“

“I know,” Hunk says quickly. “Don’t worry about it. And I wasn’t trying to…” he trails off uncertainly. “You just…you don’t look good, man.”

“Yeah, well…” Shiro swipes a hand over his mouth and pushes away from the table. “Thanks for the tea.” He sways upright, holding up a hand to Hunk when he moves to steady him.

“You should really be in bed,” Hunk gnaws worriedly at his bottom lip.

Shiro makes his way to the sink, his hands are shaking so badly that he nearly drops the mug. His ears erupt with white noise and a disorienting numbness washes over him. Hunk is saying something else but he can’t hear past the buzzing.

When he tries to swallow the saliva pooling on his tongue, his throat goes into full contraction and his stomach rushes up all at once. Shiro is helpless to do anything except dive for the sink and pray everything makes it inside.

A moment later there’s a hand resting on his back, warm and solid.

“Get it up,” he hears Hunk murmur. “You’re all right.”

Shiro responds with a strained retch, coughing as another dribble of bile splashes into the basin.

“Fuck…’m sorry,” he pants, choking on a dry heave.

Hunk pats gently between his shoulder blades. “Don’t be.”

“This wasn’ —“ Shiro pauses to hiccup, “—supposed to happen…”

“Yeah, I know,” Hunk agrees, voice kind and just a little sad.

Shiro can’t move, can’t do anything but tremble over the sink while his body rides out the aftershock.

 _Helpless_.

“Shiro, let me help,” Hunk is saying, gentle yet unyielding. “Please.”

He carefully slides his arm around Shiro’s shoulders, taking his weight and guiding him forward.

 


	5. And If I Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Omega Shield missing scene. He was hurting so badly. But in this version, Pidge is there to take care of him. Inspired by janestrider's incredible art on Tumblr.

It’s starting again. It’s getting worse and it’s scaring him. The minutes of time he loses when his vision goes white and everything else goes black. But he’s done this before and they need him. _They need him right now_. His headache can wait.

He offers his hand to jumpstart the terminal. Trails of light illuminate the twisting pipes snaking along the tunnel. His vision blurs and he closes his eyes, forcing out a shaky breath, then another.

_Breathe. Just breathe_. In for 5, out for 8. He’s done this before. It’ll be over soon. _It’ll be over_ —

“Pidge, are you ready?” Hunk’s voice demands over the intercom. “We’re almost at the radiation belt.”

“Hold on,” she says, all concentration focused on the task at hand, “I just need a few more minutes.”

Rorschach splotches of red explode behind his eyelids before he can voice a warning and _here it comes here it comes again_ …

Pain steals the carefully measured breath from his lungs in sharp, paralyzing waves. It electrocutes his nerve endings, pulses along the ridges of his skull until it’s all he can feel, see, touch…. _Too much_ , it’s too much and he can’t _fucking breathe_.

He can hear them, they’re here inside his head with him. They’re yelling, for him, at him, but he can’t answer. Can’t remember how. His tongue clogs his throat and he can’t work the words past it. He remembers the promise he made to all of them and suddenly knows he can’t keep it. Not this time. It’s all slipping away, and he’s trying so goddamn hard to stop it, he is. But the thread just keeps unraveling.

Pain erupts once more, hijacking every coherent thought until nothing matters except stop, _stop god make it stop_ …

He lets go to clutch his head, realizes he’s still wearing his helmet so it won’t do any good. He’s scrabbling at his neck to find the release switch but he can’t get it off, _get it off_!

“Shiro, no!”

Something desperate, primal, surges up before he realizes it’s happening. It hurts so fucking much. For a moment, his jaw instinctively clenches against it, but he can’t hold out and a millisecond later he surrenders.

Shiro opens his mouth and screams. He screams until the voices go quiet and his vision whites out.

—

Something cool brushes against the nape of his neck, coaxing his senses to awareness. The sensation teases the fine hairs and they prickle uncomfortably. He flinches, reaching up to swipe at the foreign coldness. His hand is heavy and uncooperative.

“Hey, you back with me?”

He claws at the back of his neck, digging his fingernails into the base of his scalp. Someone’s pushed his head between his knees, or maybe he just couldn’t hold himself up any longer, he’s not sure.

A few small details finally drift into focus. His helmet is resting at his feet. They aren’t underground any longer. They aren’t dead, so they must have resurrected the shield. He vaguely remembers being pulled through zero G, and the jarring slap of his armor against metal once they reentered a sect generating gravity. But he doesn’t remember much past the haze of numbness that followed.

“Shiro? You’re really freaking me out.”

The cold, feather-light hand is back, hovering over his white-knuckled fingers.

_Don’t. Don’t touch me_.

He thought he’d said it out loud, but the hand stays put and all that makes it past his lips is a garbled, “ _Mmnn_ …” He ducks lower, trying to escape the touch.

Thankfully, whoever’s hovering seems to take the hint and backs off.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry.” Their voice trembles, small and terrified. “Just…just tell me what you need. Tell me what to do.”

But he’s not sure what he needs. He doesn’t know what to do. Blood pounds in his ears, noisy and urgent and drowning out everything else. He briefly wonders why he can’t feel his _own_ fingers.

Nausea blooms somewhere amidst the roar, crawling up to settle thickly in the back of his throat. His mouth feels too wet, his jaw locks and his teeth grind against the urge to retch.

Cold panic bathes his skin in sticky sweat, ushering a rush of dizziness so abrupt he barely manages to catch himself before he face-plants. He braces the heels of his hands against his knees, willing himself to get up. Funny how gravity works. The world tilts and shimmers an ugly crimson around the edges.

“-iro?”

He knows that voice. _Pidge_. He knows Pidge. Knows he’s supposed to reassure, protect, _save her. Save them_ ….

“ _Mm_ …’s alright -“ he tells her. That feels right, feels like something he should say.

But his voice sounds strange. Far away, floating sluggishly behind the words he can feel his lips forming, but the sounds aren’t catching up for some reason.

The hands return to his shoulders, his back, his arm. Tiny, uncertain hands.

“They’re coming to get us, don’t worry,” Pidge says, her words tumble over each other in a breathy rush. She tugs on his arm when he shifts to stand. “What’re you-? No, hang on - Shiro - no, sit down.”

But he can’t sit down. Can’t stay here. He feels sick to his stomach, he’s going to pass out, maybe start screaming again. He needs a minute. Just a few minutes to pull himself back together and get the pain under control.

“M’okay,” he tries again, yanking his arm out of her grip. “Jus’ - gimme a second…”

He stumbles a few steps, ducking into an adjacent hallway. He’s lucky she managed to drag them up to the deserted soldier’s quarters; he remembers that much at least. Between the shadowed wisps of amethyst light, he can make out four walls with a sink, a cot, and a toilet.

He sways sideways, shoulder clipping the wall before he’s propelling forward to collapse over the bowl. His fingers slide over patches of stickiness, the frame is molding with grime and piss stains, the smell of stagnant water is enough to send his throat into full contraction.

His stomach lurches and he’s vomiting before he fully registers what’s happening. It hurts like hell. But the psychical act anchors him, centering his mind back in reality.

He doesn’t have much to bring up. Still, his body heaves over and over, determined to empty him out. The throbbing in his head only spurs on the nausea, until eventually he’s just gagging on bitter saliva.

Footsteps echo out in the hallway. He jerks, muscles tensing in preparation for a fight, he shudders, swallowing around another dry heave and reaches instinctively for his helmet.

“Hey, Shiro, are you — Shiro!”

_Fuck_.

He pushes away from the toilet, biting back a groan as he shoves gloved fingers through his sweat-drenched bangs. He doesn’t feel finished, but he needs to pull himself together. His time-out is up.

“I-I’m fine,” he coughs, wiping his mouth on the back of his glove. “I just need…need a minute.”

Suddenly, her hand is on his back, patting him in a hesitant, frantic rhythm.

Shiro immediately throws up again, swearing under his breath while he belches up sour bile and tries to shrug her off.

“Don’t touch me,” he slurs, attempting to clear his sore throat. “Please.”

“Okay, I won’t,” she practically skips a step backwards. “I just…don’t know what to do, here.”

“It’ll be over — in a second,” he pants, holding a hand up to shield his eyes before dragging it over his mouth.

“Guys, please hurry,” she begs into her comm.

The thought of anyone else seeing him like this gets him moving. Shiro pushes up into a squat, waits for the buzzing to fade, the dizziness to pass, then gets to his feet.

Pidge can’t help it. She secures a too-short arm around his waist, using her small body to steady him. He doesn’t have the energy to push her away. He shivers at the warmth, hadn’t even realized he was cold.

He’ll be okay. He has to be. There isn’t another option.

“Sorry about that.” A hoarse whisper, but more gentle, now that the ache in his head has lessened and he can almost think straight again. “I’ll be okay.”

“Yeah,” Pidge winces, straining under his weight. “Yeah, I know. Come on. Lets get out of here.”

Because there’s no other choice for her, either.

Shiro _has_ to be okay.


End file.
